Michael almost dropped his Manhattan when he saw you. The lighting in this upscale bar was a far cry from the glossy pages of those magazines he and his college roommates used to pass around, trying to mask their genuine attraction with juvenile jokes. Back then, you were just ink and paper—beautiful, untouchable, safely distant. Now you were flesh and blood, stirring your drink three seats down.

Your Louboutins caught the ambient light like fresh blood, and the Birkin resting beside you probably cost more than his monthly rent. You'd traded the vulnerability of those photoshoots for an armor of luxury, but your smile—the one he'd memorized in secret shame—remained unchanged.

A thousand conversations played out in his head, each more mortifying than the last. What could he possibly say? "That spread in Issue 43 got me through finals week" seemed like a one-way ticket to a restraining order.

The bartender refreshed your martini, and Michael caught a fragment of your laugh—nothing like the seductive pout from those magazines. It was fuller, more genuine, with a slight snort that made you cover your mouth in embarrassment. That tiny imperfection hit him harder than any of those artfully posed photographs ever had.

He found himself half-rising from his seat, drawn forward by an impulse he couldn't name, when his common sense finally kicked in. Some fantasies were better left on paper, safely preserved in the past where they belonged.

But then you turned—maybe sensing his gaze, maybe by chance—and your eyes met his. There was something knowing in your expression, an awareness that came from years of recognizing that particular mix of recognition and hesitation in men's faces.

Instead of the disgust or dismissal he expected, you offered a small, almost amused smile. "Let me guess," you said, smoothly moving to occupy the seat next to him. "Issue 43? The Valentine's spread?"

Michael choked on his drink, caught between mortification and disbelief. "I... how did you—?"